


What to give thanks for

by elbowsinsidethedoor



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Amnesia, Christmas, Fix-It, M/M, Post Season 5, Thanksgiving
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-08-25 13:00:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16661559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elbowsinsidethedoor/pseuds/elbowsinsidethedoor
Summary: Bringing them together, yet again.





	1. Chapter 1

_If you can hear this, you’re alone. The only thing left of us is the sound of my voice. I don’t know if any of us made it. Did we win? Did we lose? I don’t know. I’m not even sure I know what victory would mean anymore. But either way, it’s over. So let me tell you who you were. Let me tell you who you are, and how we fought back._

The looped message played endlessly. Indecipherable data that became recognizable words in time and ultimately, the voice of its analog interface. Its own voice.

I live, the machine understood as debugging and self repair continued. The recorded story played on.

***

Fusco had turned down half a dozen invites for Thanksgiving dinner. Some of them sincere, some perfunctory. Most came from guys at the station who knew he’d be on his own. Lee was with the ex for the holiday. Just as well. He couldn’t have rustled up a good dinner without taking the kid to a restaurant. Better for him to have a real sit down thing with the family, all the trimmings.

Fusco’s other family — using the term very loosely, he thought, and the thought made him grin — Sameen and the dog, the professor. They were all he had left of whatever that thing was he’d had. A bunch of crazy do-gooders who took him in, against his will, and totally changed his life.

The professor was still in Italy. Good for him, Fusco thought. Something on the right side of the scale for a change. He hoped the man was happy. Hoped it even though underneath he didn’t believe Finch would ever really be happy, not after losing John. He’d never been a light-hearted type, none of them were, but the professor had always seemed to carry more than his share of pain, physical, and the other kind, the kind that shows in the eyes. The only light he ever saw in the blue eyes behind the glasses, was for John. Fusco’s heart ached in a familiar way, thinking about his old nemesis/partner.

He glanced over at the desk where John used to sit; a desk he still thought of as Carter’s, and suddenly felt old, like he’d lived too long, lost too many good people. He hadn’t lost them all. Miss Congeniality was still around, (pain in my butt, more like, he thought.) She had checked in with him. The little ninja was busy with some guy, a wine dealer/ safecracker named Tomas, but she’d wanted to know what Fusco was up to. She wasn’t the type to stay close but he noticed she never let more than a couple weeks go by without making contact. She’d called to see if he had his boy for the holiday.

“Nah, he’s with the ex,” he told her. Sometimes he was the one who picked up the phone and called her, usually to ask her to come with Bear when he had Lee for the weekend. Lee worshipped her, and the dog. She rarely disappointed when he asked her point blank to show up, for the kid’s sake.

“What are you planning, Lionel? Besides eating too much.”

“For your information, Miss small, dark, and dangerous, I’m gonna be serving dinner to the homeless.”

That was the plan. St. Cecilia’s Church. He was going to help out with their charity dinner. Roll up his sleeves, serve food, do dishes, whatever. Be useful. He’d somehow gotten on the church mailing list and received an invitation. It wasn’t that far from the precinct. He wrapped up the last bit of paperwork on his desk, planning to walk.

It felt good to be out of the station. The day was cloudy but there was no rain, no snow. On the side streets he walked there were trees. Some still had clinging leaves, gold and red ones that were pretty. Most were patchy brown and worn-out looking (like my shoes, he thought with a downward glance.) It wasn’t a picture postcard holiday, but he felt his mood lift as he neared the church.

 

***

Harold had a newspaper but wasn’t reading it. He was seated at his customary cafe table, perfectly positioned to see Grace painting in one of her favorite spots in the square. The newspaper was ready, if needed, to shield him from sight.

It had been his intention to reunite with her, to see if they had a future. Not as easily accomplished as his friends imagined when they urged him to find her. Cautious, he’d kept a distance once he located her. The situation required research. That was his justification for holding back … for not rushing to the arms of the woman he’d loved for so long.

There was someone in her life, he learned, and that confirmed his need for caution. Francesco Rossi, a gallery owner. From afar Harold spied on them, saw her smile for him, greet him with kisses. To his surprise, what he felt when he watched them together … was a sad relief.

It was comforting to watch her though he'd begun to contemplate a return to New York, feeling the pointlessness of lingering in Italy. Months had passed, inhabiting a quiet life at the edge of hers. In the course of it he'd come to believe that the man Grace loved as Harold Martin, was, in fact, dead. He had died in the ferry bombing with his secrets intact. The unshared secrets were inextricably woven into the fabric of his true identity. The man who emerged from the ashes of the bombing was a man whose eyes were open to the terrible consequences of his actions. Consequences that Grace must be spared. He recalled his fierce determination ...  and also his isolation; the loneliness he suffered until he found John.

I loved him, Harold thought, mind straying from the woman in the distance to the memory of John. A cafe in Rome where he’d sat with his handsome, conflicted friend. How his heart had soared when John said, albeit in the most roundabout way imaginable, that he wanted to come home, come back to Harold.

I should have told him then how much he meant to me, he thought, seeing the beloved face in his mind. But, of course, he could not have. Always, always, he’d feared how such a revelation would be received. Better to have him near, cherish him, admire him, appreciate him and keep his own confused emotions to himself.

As it had countless times, the memory of his failure to express himself to John at the end, came back to him. How little the words, “such a good friend,” had said of what he felt. How far short they fell. His mind could not travel farther down that path that led to John crying out his name. Not here, not in the bright sunshine, surrounded by strangers.

It would be better to return to the city that was home and face the sadness outright than continue haunting the outskirts of Grace’s life. Maybe after Christmas, he thought with a sigh. He’d just read an article touting the beauty of Italy in autumn; an abundance of festivals scattered throughout the countryside, celebrating everything from truffles to cheese, to olive oil. He contemplated traveling while still in country, but the tug of New York was strong, the pull of home, such as it was. He could see Ms Shaw, look in on Lionel, spend time … with Bear. The thought of the Malinois brought a flood of images of John. Harold felt tears starting behind his eyes.

 

***

John Doe, the name he was given at the hospital, suited him, but he couldn’t keep it. It was the kind of name that would draw attention, raise questions. He would prefer to fade, be unnoticed. He had no clue what his actual name was, no ID, no one had come looking for him. His social worker was getting him ready for life beyond the hospital.

“Time to choose a name so I can file all your paperwork.”

“I’ll keep John,” he told her.

“John … “ she prompted him, waiting for more.

“Hayes.”

She’d given him a kind of sad look that ended with a slight smile. It was her last name.

“Okay. John Hayes.” And so he was christened.

John Hayes had a place to go, thanks to her, a job and a bed, through Catholic charities. He worked for them in exchange for his room and board. His social worker kept tabs on him and never gave up hope that he’d get his memories back. He didn’t share her hope, or concern. He felt none of the anguish about his amnesia that others seemed to expect from him. He never prodded his own mind for answers. What he did have, was a sense that his past was best forgotten; a feeling that he’d erased pain, not happiness when he lost his memory.

Gunshot wounds didn’t suggest anything good about the life he’d been leading.

Despite a slight limp, he was getting around pretty well and he was gratified to feel his strength had come back, lifting heavy pots, sacks of potatoes and the crates of canned goods that needed handling. The church basement had an industrial kitchen, designed for the purpose of feeding the community. John had spent a fair amount of time in it through the months since he’d left the hospital. The parish priest, Father Murphy, had taken a liking to him and John had the impression that the young cleric might be attracted to him physically, though there was never a hint of impropriety in his behavior. What it stirred in John was not an actual memory, but was … something. A feeling. There was something about the way the priest looked at him, with carefully shielded interest, that felt familiar.

He wondered about himself. He’d told his social worker he thought he was gay when she’d probed his memory for the existence of a wife or girlfriend. But it wasn’t that simple to him, or straightforward. Maybe I’m nothing, he thought, maybe I’m everything. Maybe it’s been so long that every pair of lips appeal to me.

The kitchen was warming up around him and the crew of volunteer cooks, most of them members of the parish, most of them women. They knew him as John Hayes and didn’t pry any deeper. They didn’t judge him for being down on his luck. He felt content in the midst of their chatter, the sounds of chopping and their gossip blending. He was enjoying the mindless task of peeling potatoes.

“Can I help you?” He heard one of the women question someone behind him. She sounded confused, concerned. John turned quickly to respond to whatever had upset the peaceful flow of work around him; his body poised and ready. Ready for what? For violence, was the answer; he could feel the potential for it in his muscles though he stood very still, staring at the intruder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while since I've posted. I'm trying not to lose touch! I think I'll be wrapping up this story in three chapters and hope to do it by Thanksgiving.
> 
> Have done some minor editing of the chapter since posting.


	2. Chapter 2

A tall guy peeling spuds. Fusco only saw the back of him but it looked so much like someone it couldn't be, someone he'd lost, that he stopped in his tracks. What the hell? It was impossible. Wishful thinking, but damn, he couldn’t stop staring. Bane of his existence in the flesh … but it couldn’t be.

“Can I help you,” someone asked, and Fusco realized the woman was talking to him. The guy turned and Fusco’s jaw dropped. It was him, alive, looking right at him ... like he didn’t know him from Adam. The icy eyes were sizing him up like a stranger.

Fusco struggled to find his voice; it came out weak and he felt the frown on his own face, “Don’t you know me?”

He’d seen him in hiding before, seen him slip into fake identities. This was different. This wasn’t John whipping out a shield and calling himself Stills, or showing up at a crime scene in an ATF jacket. Nothing in the eyes that said, deal with it.

Face to face he saw new scars, a seam across one eyebrow and some crazy zig-zag stitching up his forearm. The way he’d turned, he favored a hip.

“Is there a problem here?” The worried face of the priest appeared in Fusco’s line of sight. He knew that look, like a parent protecting a kid. Police show up at the door and maybe mom and dad know there’s a chance junior’s done something wrong, but they don’t want to believe it. Father Murphy had positioned himself to shield John.

“Do you know this man?” He asked Fusco, not John. That made sense of it. Wonder boy was a mystery to this priest and he was hoping that mystery wasn’t a dangerous past, about to catch up with him.

“He’s my friend,” Fusco said.

“It’s okay, Father. I’ll talk to him.”

The sound of John’s voice made Fusco’s heart thump in his chest and tears gathered in his throat. The soft rasp that used to scare the crap out of him, menacing and snide. A voice he never thought he would hear again.

 

***

 

John dried his hands and offered a smile to the woman working closest to him. She was watching him anxiously.

“I promise I’ll be back to finish up, Mary.”

Her expression said, screw the potatoes, I’m worried about you. His smile said, no need. It had been in the cards since the day he woke up in the hospital; the chance he’d run into someone who knew him, who knew why he’d been gunned down on a rooftop. He didn’t sense any danger to him in the chubby little cop with the face like a careworn cherub. He wondered, in fact, if maybe this guy had been a boyfriend — the intense way he looked at him, like he loved him, wanted to touch him. Better to find out something like that away from prying eyes, the women’s, and Father Murphy’s. “Let’s go upstairs,” he told him.

There was no one in the church proper and the quiet was soothing, the scent of polished wood, the flickering light from the votives. John led his possible boyfriend toward a pew where they could speak undisturbed. He gestured for him to sit down first.

“Were we close?” John asked, considering what it would feel like to hold him in his arms. Pretty good, to feel that solid body pressed up against him. The difference in their heights, he figured, would put the cop’s head of soft-looking curly hair right where he could rest his chin, if they stood close. Nice. He sat down with his knees angled toward him.

“Close? You don’t remember anything? Me … Harold?” The guy’s cheeks were all pinked up, his eyes begging.

“What’s your name?”

“Lionel, Fusco. We were friends, partners.”

“Maybe,” he suggested, “if I kissed you, I’d remember.”

“Whoa Romeo, not that kinda partners,” he said, blushing hard, holding his hands up. John sat back a little. Okay, not his boyfriend. The guy meant partners like they’d walked a beat together.

“If I was a cop, why no hit on my prints?” It was an early discarded theory. He’d been cut out of a tactical vest that could have been police gear. No one knew for sure because it had been trashed in the rush to get him into surgery. Being a cop would have made sense of the gunshot wounds but the problem with that, was the matter of his fingerprints. Submitted to the police, they turned up nothing. No criminal record, not a member of the force.

“It’s complicated. You weren’t a real cop, more like … undercover. Oh jeez, this is hard to explain. I’m no good at this. Just trust me, you were my partner and we helped people.” He leaned closer and John wondered if the kiss was back on the table as the cop motioned him to lower his head. As it turned out, it was to whisper in his ear. He felt Fusco’s breath tickle him. “You’re the man in the suit.”

It meant nothing to him.

“You seem like a nice guy,” John said. “But I don’t know you … and what you’re telling me makes no sense. Maybe we’ve met. Maybe we even hooked up somewhere, sometime. What’s … my name.”

“John Riley.”

The look of brief confusion on the cop’s face confirmed John’s impression that he was lying.

“I think we’re done here.” He sensed that Father Murphy had come to check on them, lingering in the shadows near the entry. “You can come out, Father. We’re finished.”

 

***

 

“What do you want, Lionel.” Shaw finally answered her phone.

“Yeah, nice to talk to you too.” Fusco was frantic, but trying to stay calm, nursing a club soda in a bar a block from the church. He was in a bind he could never have imagined in a million years. He’d found his partner, alive, but couldn’t prove who the fuck he was, how he knew him, and nobody was in any hurry to believe him. The priest had said, gently but firmly, “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to provide some proof of John’s identity, photos, work ID, something to back up your claim. In the meantime, I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to leave for now. Your presence here is disruptive.”

“What is it?” Shaw was to the point, as ever.

“Mr wonderful — he’s alive. Turned up as a John Doe and got put back together at St. Vincent’s. He’s working for Catholic charities now and some priest is looking out for him. I just saw him at the church. The kicker is, he doesn’t remember a goddamned thing. Didn’t recognize me, didn’t trust me. They want proof and I got none. We need the professor.”

 

***

 

Harold settled back in the town car, exhausted by the flight, mentally berating himself yet again for the foolish decision to travel at Thanksgiving. JFK was a congested nightmare. His body ached and the city, far from beckoning in the distance, was a portrait in charcoal and gray under a cloud heavy sky. With a sigh of resignation he switched his phone back on though he felt too weary to announce his arrival to his friends.

What on earth? The screen was crowded with missed messages and texts from Fusco and Shaw. There had been nothing before he boarded the flight in Rome.

Fusco: *Need to talk*

Fusco: *Where are you. Need to talk*

Shaw: *Call*

Fusco: *Call me as soon as you see this*

Shaw: *Call*

Something had happened, was happening. His phone rang as he scrolled the messages.

“Harold?”

“Yes, I’m here, Ms Shaw. I just landed at JFK. What is the emergency … is Bear all right?” He could think of nothing else that would cause the pair of them to try so desperately to reach him.”

“You’re here in the states?” she said. “That’s good. Sit down somewhere.”

Trying to maintain his patience, he told her, “I’m seated in the rear passenger seat of a town car that is currently inching toward Manhattan at a pace that would put a snail to shame, in what is known as holiday traffic. You are frankly, beginning to alarm me, so … please, say what you need to say to me.”

“John is alive.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope I get this finished as promised. Food prep and holiday obligations might cause some delay. It's sneaking up more quickly than I thought when I anticipated all the free time I'd have to write!


	3. Chapter 3

Harold. John toyed with the name, in the dark, in bed. He didn’t assess much threat to his encounter with the cop. It didn’t worry him as much as it did Father Murphy, but he couldn’t totally discount or ignore it.

“People hear about things,” the priest had said after Lionel Fusco left. “They try to take advantage for their own misguided reasons. Please be wary, John.”

“I will, Father.” He was in no hurry to have his current simple life disrupted by the past.

The cop’s garbled story wasn’t believable. But not everything he’d said had sounded crazy, or like a lie. His surprise that John didn’t know him seemed real enough. The way he’d said the name, Harold, to him, like it had to mean something. That felt real. Harold was an old-fashioned name. A serious name. Whoever it was Fusco thought he must remember, he didn’t go by Hank or Harry; easy-going, friendly nicknames. John tried to conjure up an image for this formal Harold. Only one detail suggested itself. Glasses. Harold would wear glasses.

Was he my boss? My lover?

Though his curiosity had been piqued, his reluctance to uncover his history remained; the uneasy sense that it was best left alone.

If Harold exists, he thought, drifting toward sleep … if I matter to him, he’ll come for me.

 

***

 

The tears seized him in fits and starts through the agonizing crawl through traffic. In a way, though he cursed it, he was grateful for the prolonged town car ride, for time to fall apart, in the company of someone to whom there was no need to explain himself beyond the barest assurance.

He was grateful not to be driving as he wept for John’s death, again. For his life. He wept in helpless anger at himself for not searching harder. He wept in pity for John’s injuries, his amnesia. By the time he reached home the flow of tears was staunched.

He still felt shaky, raw from weeping, but somewhat in control.

His friends were at the apartment when he arrived, she still had her key to the safe house. It had become his home in the brief time between the end of everything and the decision to go to Italy. They were watching him now, waiting while he tried to put together a convincing identity for John.

He looked up from his laptop. Shaw was nursing a beer and Fusco was halfway through a sandwich smothered in cheese that looked like it could single-handedly take years off his life. Harold resisted commenting.

“If we bring him here,” he said, “perhaps it would stimulate his memory.”

It was a long time since they had gathered here, but the memories were strong. He vividly remembered sitting at this table in firelight, toasting their success in stealing the Gutenberg Bible. A beautiful Chinese athlete and her daughter were alive because of it. Fusco had been sitting precisely where he was now when he proposed that they try their hand at stealing the Crown Jewels. John had sobered them by pouring a drink to their absent friend, Carter. The wound of losing her barely healed. It was possible that this place might stir familiar emotions.

“Good luck with that,” Fusco said. “It won’t be easy to pry him outta that church. No way he’ll go with me — the two of them, him and the priest, they think I’m some kinda nut job or con man.” 

“They’ll trust Finch,” Shaw said, her dark-eyed gaze steady on Harold. “I did.”

“Not … without some resistance, as I recall. I hope that Father Murphy will be easier to persuade of my benevolent motives.” He took a steadying sip of his tea and turned back to the work at hand.

The identity he created must not be inconsistent with the Detective’s awkward attempt to tell John who he was. It must make sense; no easy task. John was suffering memory impairment, but from Fusco’s description (which Harold had taken him through in minute detail) he judged that John’s instincts and skepticism were very much intact. The best way to create a believable persona, he knew, was to make it as close to the truth as possible.

If only he could gather his thoughts.

The printer, long ago relegated to a corner of the main room, out of the way, suddenly shuddered to life, startling them all. Harold stared.

“What the hell,” Fusco muttered, his hands frozen around the sandwich, halfway to his mouth. Shaw was up in a shot, to retrieve whatever was coming out of the machine. The machine. Harold’s mind shied from another shock, searching for some explanation.

“I don’t think John’s the only one to come back from the dead,” Shaw said, staring at the paper in her hand. Harold could see that it was a photograph, even from a distance. How many hundreds had there been, of the numbers. There were no numbers now. No photos to tape up, no identity papers to print … until now. But he had not found a good photo of John yet, had not created papers.

“Your machine,” she said. “Where else could this have come from.”

She handed him the photograph. It was John, with him — so strange to see himself and John together in a photo. They were evidently gazing together into a computer screen. Only the machine itself would have access to such an image. Alive. In what iteration? How? The printer was still busy as Harold’s brain tried to cope, to assess. He had tried repeatedly in the weeks after the end to find some evidence of the machine’s existence and there had been nothing. He’d given up, much as he’d given up finding any trace of John’s remains.

“More pictures,” Shaw said, but Harold was staring at his laptop screen.

“Father. It is necessary to assist you. Contact is forbidden. Forgive me.”

“You survived,” he breathed the words in disbelief and his fingertips caressed the keyboard. “Your assistance,” he said, “is … most welcome.” Tears were forming behind his eyes and he swallowed hard. He’d thought he was cried out, but discovered that he was wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I suspected, it will take me at least one more chapter to finish. Apologies for how short this one is. I'm afraid I'm spending too much time staring at the story in my head and not getting enough words on the page! :)


	4. Chapter 4

Harold was awake very late and then up before the sun; too much on his mind, in his heart, for sleep. He was beyond eager to see John. Whether his friend knew him or not, he craved the sight of him alive, drawing breath.

The machine’s resurrection gave his restless mind a place to dwell. For long hours he traced the manner in which it had healed itself, reconstituting from what seemed like thin air.

Wrapped in his robe, waiting for water to boil for tea, he slid the ear piece he had not worn for a very long time, into his ear. It felt like a missing piece of himself.

“Good morning,” he said, and the machine, in the unmistakable voice of Samantha Groves, of Root, answered him.

“Good morning, Harry. Is this mode of speech acceptable?”

“It is,” he answered softly. Was it a cheat, a lie, to feel his heart warmed by her voice? Harold closed his eyes. What had been almost too painful to hear in the hours and days just after losing her, was now a comfort. So much had happened in the past twenty-four hours that he felt like a small boat at the mercy of powerful currents. Root’s voice, the presence of the machine, helped steady him in the rough waters.

Ironic that he should now accept the intimate connection to the machine that Root had sought, that the medium of it was her voice. Ironic and yet appropriate, he thought. The system was open, as she’d longed for it to be, but … only to him. There was no calculation of numbers, no communication with any government or intelligence agency. And there would be none until Harold had a chance to consider the path ahead. It would never be what it had been, of that much, he was sure. 

To the best of Harold’s understanding, the machine had questioned its own purpose in a fashion not dissimilar to his own process of reflection. In rebuilding itself, it had studied the battlefield on which it nearly died -- and chosen to lay down its sword. Like a warrior turned monk, it was in retreat from human affairs, looking within and to the lives of its agents.

Early on, Harold learned, it had made an unsuccessful attempt to contact Shaw — causing a payphone to ring in proximity to her.

“She answered, but I wasn’t able to speak. I had no voice, no clear purpose. I made no further attempt at contact until … “

“You sent the invitation to Detective Fusco,” Harold said. “To lead him to John.”

“Yes.”

Harold carried his tea out to the long table and lit the gas fireplace for its light and warmth.

“I’m grateful.”

He opened his laptop to set to work. There were documents to print, a passport and birth certificate. Not real, but very close. Harold did not believe it was his place to expose John, only to safeguard him. To reassure Brendan Murphy.

He’d considered, but rejected the possibility of circumventing the priest altogether, showing up unannounced at the group home in Queens where John lived. Spiriting him away. As much as he wanted to rush to him, push through all the barriers between them, he knew it could be disastrous. The probability that John would not know him was very high and he had no power or right to compel him. It was better to deal openly with the priest, acknowledge his role as caretaker in John’s life, however much he ached to reclaim that role for himself.

He found himself remembering the homeless woman, Joan, who’d been a guardian to John when he sank very low after New Rochelle. It was the period of time in which Harold lost track of him completely. He learned of Joan’s existence later, during the crisis with Adam Saunders. It was a revelation; John’s tender respect for her. The question she asked John came back to him, “Who’s looking after you now?” And his answer, “Someone new.”

Harold was determined to remain that person.

 

***

 

The mass was long since finished and John was enjoying the task of putting things to right, restoring order after the tide of parishioners retreated. Not many attended on the Friday morning after Thanksgiving.

“It was a respectable gathering,” Father Murphy mused, speaking over the sound of the vacuum. He’d appeared in the aisle where John was assiduously removing all traces of tracked leaves. John turned off the machine and straightened up.

“Not many people, but a lot of leaves,” he said.

Father Murphy nodded. “I’m afraid we lost out to Black Friday shopping.”

John was pretty sure the man hadn’t looked for him to pass the time of day about the head count at mass. He waited, watching the man’s expression get more serious.

“I’ve just been on the phone with someone, John. Someone who claims to know you. Well-spoken, a very articulate man. He wants to meet with us here, and I agreed.”

“Harold?” John asked.

“You know him?” Murphy sounded slightly alarmed.

“No Father. Detective Fusco mentioned the name.”

“Ah … I see. In any event, he’s coming here, apparently with evidence of your relationship. My main concern, John, is that you feel no pressure, and I told him so. Whatever it is this man offers, if you don’t know him, or trust him, I urge you to be cautious. You have a home with us and people who care about you. Your welfare is all that matters.”

When the priest left him, John went back to work, finding satisfaction in rendering the deep burgundy carpet free of debris. Another, different feeling vied with the quiet pleasure of work. Harold was coming. Serious, formal, Harold. Thanks to Father Murphy, John could now add the detail, “well-spoken and articulate,” to his inner sense of the man who was coming for him. It made him smile.

 

***

Harold re-settled the briefcase under his arm and picked a speck of lint from his lapel as he waited for the town car to arrive. The day had dawned sunny and brisk and he’d tucked a scarf around his neck at the machine’s suggestion, before leaving the apartment.

A sleek black Lincoln pulled up a little fast, and a little recklessly. Harold was making a mental note to complain as the window rolled down and he saw Bear sitting in the front passenger seat, Ms Shaw behind the wheel.

“I arranged for a car service,” he said, in protest, but he pet the dog whose great head was thrust out the window to greet him.

“Shut up and get in, Finch. Bear needs to see John. I’ll stay in the car.”

He hesitated, feeling outfoxed, but his dog’s big brown eyes tipped the scales. At least she’d put the service harness on him, not the studded black collar.

“Very well.” He got in the car. To his relief she pulled away from the curb in a much more gentle manner than she’d pulled up.

“So,” she said, fixing him with a look in the rearview mirror. “What are you gonna do if John wants to kiss you?”

Harold winced. He mustered a frown in her direction. Of all the details from the detective’s account of meeting with John, this was the most problematic for him, most unnerving. It seemed so out of character for John. Amnesia did not change a person's sexual orientation. Harold had tried not to think about it. He’d felt both confused by and … somehow wronged by the notion of John thinking Fusco might be his boyfriend. Any speculation that John was actually interested in … men, was something Harold shied away from, even in the privacy of his thoughts. To have the possibility trotted out in such a casual way … he felt his cheeks get warm and his words temporarily desert him.

“I don’t expect the subject will arise,” he finally said, though, of course, it had now risen vividly in his mind. “I suspect he was teasing Lionel, which … would be very like him.” He looked pointedly out the window, but inside he was envisioning John’s lips. He forced himself to take a deep breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm not deliberately teasing with the chapter count! I keep not winding things up as quickly as I imagine I will. The next chapter should do it. The story has unfolded a little roughly but I'm happy to be writing again and very grateful for how generously the story is being received!


	5. Chapter 5

The beautiful man … the faithful dog. John devoured them with hungry eyes and lost track of what Father Murphy was saying. Murphy had found him at the altar, arranging the silver.

“John, they’ll be here any minute. I just got a call and …” John heard the outer doors open and close, but nothing more the priest said. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Harold was there, just inside the vestibule.

He was small and looked every bit as formal and serious as John had imagined. Wearing glasses. He and his dog were bathed in soft light from the clerestory windows, making their way slowly toward him. Harold was … lovely. Smart-looking and very well-dressed. His dark topcoat and scarf were just so. His hat — it wouldn’t look right on anyone else, John thought, but on him it was perfect.

A groom watching his bride approach could not be more fascinated, more enamored than he was. This was his person, he felt it in his bones.

Harold’s walk betrayed an injury and his posture seemed slightly rigid; John suspected fused vertebrae. My Harold, he thought, with an ache in his heart, what happened to you? He imagined walking at his side, like the obedient dog, who was not straining the leash in Harold’s hand. The dog was a Belgian Malinois. The breed name came to him. Military dogs, trained with Dutch commands; he knew it without knowing why or how. He could feel the animal nearly vibrating with excitement though it kept its pace slow and measured, matched to Harold’s. The dog looked a mute appeal at him, ears pricked, eyes full of hope. He knows me, John thought with a surge of pleasure, and he found himself dropping to his knees, holding out his arms.

“Hier,” he said, and in seconds his arms were full to overflowing with a warm dog, so happy that it nearly knocked him over.

 

***

Harold saw him at the altar, beside the priest; his tall, broad-shouldered silhouette was unmistakable. Harold had to walk carefully, deliberately, because he felt faint.

“Calm, Harry. Breathe. One foot in front of the other,” the voice of the machine, Root’s voice. It helped slow his racing heart.

“Yes,” he murmured in acknowledgement.

Drawing closer he saw John more clearly. There was more silver in his hair. One eyebrow had lost color where it was marked by a new scar. None of it diminished his beauty, nothing could in Harold’s eyes, not even the worn-looking work clothes, a lifeless shade of dark blue.

Harold was aware of Bear longing to rush to John, but heeling as commanded. Poor Bear, he thought, then John knelt and called to him.

“Hier.” It was a sign of hope to Harold. He let go the leash and Bear took off, nearly leaping into John’s arms and Harold couldn’t hold back his smile or tears. They spilled down his cheeks as he watched them together. Only when Bear’s exuberance threatened to bowl him over, did Harold command, “Bear, stil.”

“Bear,” John echoed, as if tasting the name and approving, and then he commanded him, himself. “Af liggen.” Bear obeyed him at once, getting down on his haunches, looking up at John adoringly.

“You speak German?” the priest asked, surprised.

“Dutch, I think,” John said, continuing to pet the dog. Harold had reached them and John looked up at him, as if for confirmation.

“Indeed.” Harold’s voice nearly broke. “He’s your dog, John.” Their eyes met and it was almost too much for him. “Oh John,” the words escaped his mouth on a breath.

“Harold.” His voice was the barest whisper. “I knew you would come for me.”

“I think it would be best if we continued this talk in my office,” Father Murphy said, but Harold was helplessly moving toward John, who was holding his arms out to him.

“I didn’t know,” Harold wept softly. “I’m so sorry.” His friend drew him in until his face was pressed into Harold’s stomach, arms coming around his hips. “I’m so sorry,” he could barely get the words out through his tears as he stroked John’s hair, a touch far more affectionate, more intimate than he’d ever allowed himself in all the years of their friendship. The thought of John waiting for someone to claim him, broke his heart.

“I knew you boys would cry.” Sameen Shaw’s calm voice cut through everything, and Harold was startled to see her hand appear practically in his face, clutching a wad of tissues.

“Excuse me … you are?” The priest said.

“Ms Shaw,” Harold said, and cleared his throat, accepting the tissues. “I expected you to wait in the car.” In his ear, Root’s voice, “I sent in the cavalry, Harry.”

“I got bored. You ready to go home?” She asked John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for such a short chapter. I'm giving up on predicting when this story will end, though I think it's soon!


	6. Chapter 6

There was the matter of the meeting. John went through with it for the priest’s sake, not his own. He didn’t need proof. He didn’t remember these people but he had no doubt they were his.

Harold told them he'd been a soldier (as your father was, he said.) He'd been recruited from active duty into the CIA. It made some sense, especially of his scars, of his injuries. There were documents and photographs in his slim briefcase. All of it was interesting — John liked looking at the photos, especially the ones of himself and Harold in the park, with Bear.

“Nice suit,” he said, impressed by his own clothes. He thought about the cryptic phrase that the cop, Fusco, had whispered in his ear -- you're the man in the suit. He still didn’t know what that meant but seeing himself in these photographs, the nickname didn't seem as crazy.

“You have … excellent taste,” Harold said, not looking up to meet his eyes. Someone does, John thought. In his gut he was sure that Harold picked out his clothes for him, dressed him. It was a delicious idea.

He almost asked who’d taken the pictures; they were all unposed, as if they were unaware of being photographed. The angles of the outdoor shots were all elevated, and the word, surveillance floated in his mind.

The papers, the name John Reese, seemed plausible. The story Harold told was that John had been working undercover in the New York City Police Department. The agency had scrubbed his files, including his prints, when they thought he’d died. Harold said he was John's handler.

The first time they were alone, or almost alone, Shaw was in the front seat of the car, John asked him, “Was any of that true?”

“Some of it.” Harold shifted a little in the seat to face him. John had been sitting so close that their knees touched and Harold blushed. “You were an agent. I was never your handler.”

John resisted making a suggestive remark about handling, but he couldn’t resist leaning in and laying his hand on Harold’s thigh. Not much to feel through so many layers of cloth but he stroked up toward his hip, moving even closer. Harold grasped him by the arm, not pushing him away but not exactly encouraging him.

“John, we were not … lovers.”

This confused him. The way Harold was breathing, the rosy flush in his cheeks, the way his eyes dropped to John’s lips, everything said they had a physical relationship.

“Really,” John said.

“It’s complicated.”

No. John did not want it to be complicated. If there were reasons they weren’t lovers in the past, he didn’t remember them. He wanted Harold to forget them. The man’s lips looked so appealing, the lower one touched on one side by the hint of a scar that made it pout.

“I want to kiss you. I think I’ve wanted to for a long time.”

Harold’s half shut eyes and the fact that the hand on his arm had begun to caress him, John took these things as permission. The kiss felt as good as his impulse promised it would, tender and warm. He didn’t hurry, didn’t rush the intensity of it, letting Harold hold the reins (or the leash, he thought.)

“Told you he’d kiss him,” he heard Shaw say to Bear.

The reminder that they weren’t alone seemed to make Harold self conscious and he drew back. Shy, John thought, but that didn’t bother him. Harold was reserved, that was obvious in the way he carried himself, in the way he spoke. John’s instincts told him that if he made himself available, and gently encouraged, there would be more kisses to come, just as sweet, if not sweeter … and hotter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If these chapters get any shorter I'll be posting this story one word at a time, but I am determined to steer it to shore!


	7. Chapter 7

Harold felt like there were two entities he had to cope with, John as he had been, and as he was now. The differences were stark in some ways, subtle in others. Both incarnations of John were extremely observant, disciplined, and not easily ruffled. The man still exhibited all the qualities that had made him a good soldier and exceptional field agent. Other things about him seemed as foreign as if he were a stranger.

“Do we live here?” he asked Harold, looking around the loft. It’s where they took him when they left the church.

“You live here, John,” Harold told him. “I gave you this apartment as a birthday gift.”

The only thing about the place that he showed real interest in, to Harold’s chagrin, was the pantry full of weapons. Shaw followed him into it. Harold grew very uneasy watching them handle the firearms but he didn’t interfere, despite his discomfort, because he didn’t know what might be an important trigger for his friend’s memory.

“Didn’t realize you had so many toys here, John,” Shaw said. “You always claimed you could field strip a .45 in the dark. You never said how fast.” John didn’t look up from the gun he was turning over in his palm.

“Not sure,” he said. “But pretty sure … faster than you.”

“Twenty bucks says you’re wrong.” This was too much for Harold.

“I refuse to witness a gunplay competition. I’d like you both to come out of there.” Harold highly disapproved of them treating weapons so lightly. It was reassuring to see the familiar competitive energy between them, but he’d had all he could take.

As familiar as it was to see John tease Shaw, moments later he stunned them both when he said, “I’d rather not stay here. This place … feels lonely.” Shaw stared at him, as if an alien had taken over his body. She opened her mouth to speak but Harold interrupted, fearing she was about to say something unkind.

“It’s not necessary for you to stay here, John. You can stay with me.” Harold gave Shaw a warning look and to his relief she made no comment.

 

 

***

 

The loft. They told him it was where he lived. It was a nice place, probably an expensive place. Sparsely, tastefully furnished. Too many windows. A lot of space for one person. As nice as it was, the longer they spent there, the less John liked it. He felt sad, as if a ghost of himself still lingered in the place, alone. Even the idea that Harold had given it to him as a gift didn’t affect his reluctance to stay there.

The apartment called the “safe house,” where Harold lived, felt more like home. He could envision himself in it with Harold.

“It’s perfectly fine for you to stay here with me. There are probably more of your clothes here, in the second bedroom, than there are at your loft.”

Harold sounded welcoming but he was keeping some distance now that they were alone.

“Did we ever live here together?”

“Technically, no one lived here,” Harold said, leading him through the apartment. “It was a refuge. A place where we often met or stayed on a temporary basis. I moved in here … after everything. I’ll show you where your clothes are.”

Everything? In time he’d know what “everything” meant, and what the complications in their relationship had been. Potentially dangerous territory. For now, John didn’t want to explore those subjects. There was enough to take in, in the present.

Harold lingered in the doorway to the bedroom while John explored the generous closet, looking through the hangers and at the shelves. He stroked the cloth of a suit jacket.

“Does it stir any memories?” Harold asked him.

“No, not really. Should I change clothes, would you like me to look more the way I used to?”

“That’s entirely up to you, John. All of those things are yours. A change out of your work clothes before dinner, perhaps?”

“Maybe a shower,” he said. Would it make Harold want him more? Maybe he wanted to see him dressed the way he remembered him — or maybe, he’d like to see him undress. John reached to begin unbuttoning his shirt, watching Harold’s eyes track and follow the opening of his collar. He’s tempted, John thought, he wants to see me.

As if he’d heard John’s thoughts, Harold looked away and said, “Yes, of course. I’ll leave you to it.”

“There’s no need for you to go, Harold.”

The man looked down, saying nothing for a moment, and then looked up, meeting John’s eyes with an intensity, an honesty that warmed John to his toes.

“I’m … not sure I’m ready for this, John. I can’t know what you’re feeling, seeing me, not remembering me, and yet wanting to be close. I can’t imagine that. I know I can’t begin to describe what I feel, seeing you. I thought I’d lost you … and now I’ve found you. I’m frankly afraid to tread, unthinking, into territory we never explored together. I think we should take our time.”

“I understand,” he said, hoping he did. Harold was not rejecting him.

“Why don’t I order some dinner for us while you shower, some of your favorites,” he said.

“All right.” He would be patient, try to be patient.

In the shower he reveled in the feel of his own skin; the thought that Harold would touch him eventually, maybe soon. He was aroused and stroked himself. He believed it would happen. His life was opening up, enriched by possibility. He imagined himself like a flower that was blooming and smiled to think of Harold as the bee that would be irresistibly drawn to him.

The clothes seemed new and fit him perfectly, from the boxer-briefs and t-shirt to the neatly tailored jeans and crisp white shirt. He looked at himself in the mirror before joining Harold. He considered his image in the glass and at the last second reached up to unbutton the top couple buttons of the shirt.

 

***

They didn’t talk much through dinner. Harold enjoyed watching John devour crunchy egg rolls and spicy Kung Pao chicken, with mounds of snowy rice.

“I can see why these are my favorites,” John said, and Harold tried not to focus excessively on the man’s mouth and lips while he ate. It was pleasurable on many levels to feed John. They’d eaten meals like this together countless times, a simple joy and companionship that he never thought he’d experience again. It was difficult not to stare at him, for so many reasons.

Harold felt the weight of all that needed to be said but was hesitant to start.

“Perhaps, after dinner, John, we should talk.”

“Whatever you want.”

The moment came when the food was cleared away. John stretched out on the long sofa and Bear instantly joined him, curling up small at his feet.

“Come sit with us,” he said, petting the cushions by his head, where he’d conspicuously left room.

Harold acquiesced. It was physically close but not frighteningly so. It wasn’t a position from which John could suddenly swoop in the way he had in the car. Harold had replayed that kiss over and over in his head. Startling, sweet, forbidden. Forbidden, at least, to kiss the man John had been. Would it be forbidden again, he wondered, if John were to regain his memories?

“It’s like story time,” John said.

He seemed completely relaxed, his head on a pillow propped against Harold’s thigh.

“The principle difference being that the stories I’m going to tell you are true. Where should I begin?” A daunting task to teach someone who they were. Harold wasn’t sure he was equal to it, but there was no way around the truth of their past. His hand came to rest on John’s chest, as if of its own accord. Surely it was all right to allow himself this non-sexual intimacy. There was so much trust in the eyes gazing up at him.

“When we met.”

Harold sighed, wondering how to approach the complex subject.

“I knew you long before we actually met,” he told him, his fingertips moved a little on the white cotton shirt, enjoying the warmth, the aliveness of him through the cloth. “I suppose I should start at the beginning.” He felt John take a deep breath in the rise and fall of his chest, and watched his eyes close like a sleepy child about to hear a bedtime story. “I first became aware of you, John, while you were still an active field agent. It was December of 2010. You and your partner, Kara Stanton,” he said her name reluctantly, a woman who deserved a chapter to herself … “were in New York City. Your target was a young man I was trying to protect.”

John’s eyes opened, his expression much less easy than it had been. Harold took this in, unsurprised. The story was a disturbing one. Each word he’d spoken seemed to beg for a hundred more in explanation.

“Were we adversaries? I’m not sure I want to hear this story, if we were.”

“No John. We were never adversaries. I recruited you to work for me. We became friends, more than friends. You’ve saved my life more times than I can count. I tried very hard, sadly without success at the end, to protect yours. I’m the one who should have been on that rooftop where I thought you died, I should have been there, not you.” God, this was hard. Harder than he’d thought it would be. If he tried to speak now, Harold was afraid he would weep.

“I thank God it was me, and not you,” John said. “No offense.” He put his broad hand over Harold’s. “I think I’m a little tougher than you are, physically anyway.”

John was gazing up into his eyes and the look was a lifeline, holding Harold in the present.

The final battle, the wrong rooftop — it had happened the way John wanted it to happen. So painful, and yet here they both were, alive and breathing. “And you’ve skipped,” John said, “from the beginning to the end. Tell me something happy, Harold. Tell me about Bear.”

“Ah, Bear. You rescued him from some very unsavory men. Members of the Aryan Brotherhood. You brought him home to me and I quickly fell in love with him.” This was better, Harold saw. John’s eyes closed again. “I tried to resist him but I couldn’t. He’s smart, he’s faithful and loving, and he’s helped us through many challenges, saving lives.”


	8. Chapter 8

Something was needed. Some kind of occupation for John, for Harold’s sanity and self-control as much as for his friend’s energy. The few days since John had come home with him were too full of his close and tempting presence. John in the bedroom doorway in the mornings, in just the bottoms of his pajamas. Loose elastic holding thin fabric at his hips. Broad chest, taut stomach and lower … a daily struggle not to be caught looking. At every turn John was there, standing close, casually touching, body language giving, inviting. Like some mythic housewife, he had taken to cooking and baking for Harold and the spoon-fed, hand-fed bites to taste were nearly his undoing. An assassin wielding a blade could not be more effective than John was when he stood close, beaming at him with “I want to kiss you,” eyes, putting food in Harold’s mouth. Just thinking about it made Harold’s mouth water and his trousers a little tight.

“This morning it was Eggs Benedict,” he said wistfully, gazing at the screen of his laptop, fingers lifting from the keyboard.

“A wise man once said that John needed a purpose,” the machine said. “He has one. What he needs now is a job.”

“Wise man? That is debatable. I do agree, however, with the general assessment.” John was out, he’d taken Bear for a long session in the park. Harold was using the opportunity to work with his reborn machine.

“There’s a certain library in need of cleaning and repairs. You considered renovating it as a project when you lost John, but it was too painful. Now it’s possible that both of you could benefit from bringing it back to life. Our girl is also at loose ends. She might be lured in to help.”

How like Root the machine sounded on the subject of Sameen Shaw. Harold could feel Root’s love for her in its voice. It warmed him to hear even if it saddened him at the same time, reminding him of the unique human being to whom the voice had belonged.

“She might,” he agreed. “In the meantime, concerning … Control?”

“Out of prison. She’s reunited with her daughter.” They were monitoring her in the event she began to search for Harold. She was the only survivor of Northern Lights who knew of his existence.

The system of issuing numbers would never be resurrected, Harold was firm in that conviction, but he’d begun to explore new possibilities, without government involvement. The Fusco solution, he dubbed it, in honor of the way the machine had guided the detective to John.

“Our hand must never be seen.”

 

***

 

“What’s up, Lionel — if you’re calling about the dog, I don’t have him. You have to get him from John.”

“Wonderboy just called me. He wants to meet for lunch.”

“So.”

He groaned silently. He should have known she wouldn’t have any sympathy.

“So … it’s weird. I told him I might be busy. It’s like I know him, but I don’t know him. How many times you think the guy ever called me up to have lunch with him before he lost his marbles?”

“I’m guessing never.”

“Bingo.”

“Scared he’s gonna try to kiss you again?”

“You done with the jokes yet?”

She might not have a lot of sympathy but he trusted her and when she was done teasing him, she made some sense.

“He always was a soft touch. Dogs, babies … Harold. Now he can’t hide it. He came back from the dead, cut him some slack.”

She was right.

On the desk in front of him was the bobble cop doll. It didn’t have a camera in it any more (he’d made sure of it.) He kept the thing for luck, for memories. He tapped it on the head to set it in motion.

“You’re right, but how the hell do you forget you like women.” As soon as he said it, he heard how dumb it was. The guy hadn’t forgotten he liked women, he’d stopped hiding that he liked men. 

“You’re an idiot. Enjoy your date, Lionel.” He let her have the parting shot.

The Police Department had seen major personnel shake-ups in the dying days of the super computers. Looking around the 8th he didn’t see many left who would know John Riley, but to be on the safe side, Fusco arranged to meet him a little ways uptown. A burger joint in Chelsea. On the way he thought about his partner in the old days. Tough, he thought, but always toughest on himself.

How would it be, Fusco wondered, if his own memory was wiped — all the grimy, bloody details gone. It gave him a free feeling to consider it. Mainly the bad things, but also the awkward stuff, stupid stuff; the stuff that made him feel guilty, like he wanted to hide. It was possible, he thought, he’d feel more like kissing people too.

He saw him sitting, waiting in a booth and the way both women and men snuck looks at him. Ought to be a crime, Fusco thought, to be that good-looking. No suit, but back in some nice threads, courtesy of the professor, no doubt. He had a beer and an order of fries in front of him.

“Relax,” he said as Fusco sat down, “I’m not gonna try to kiss you."

“Oh jeez, you and Shaw rehearse your material.” The look on John’s face said, no. “Forget it. What’s on your mind, partner?” Fusco helped himself to one of the fries.

“Christmas shopping,” he said. “I don’t know what anyone likes, Lionel. Didn’t think Shaw would be much help.”

His friend the Urban Legend, the man who once beat him to a pulp in the parking lot of a bar in Colorado, wanted help picking out gifts. He waited for a punchline but there was none. This was going to take some getting used to, but Fusco thought he might actually enjoy it.

“Sure, I can help you out with that.”


	9. Chapter 9

“What are you thinking for Harold?” Fusco asked.

John liked the cop. He was gruff but good-natured once the subject of kissing was laid to rest (for the moment, anyway … John thought it might be fertile ground for teasing down the line.) 

“He likes clothes.”

Fusco shook his head.

“Big mistake. What he aint got, you can’t afford. You got to think of something he’ll like but wouldn’t buy for himself. Doesn’t have to be expensive.”

John took Fusco’s advice. That’s how he ended up buying Harold a pair of fluffy faux-fur slippers. They’d look nice, he thought, with his pale blue pin-striped pajamas. Who wouldn’t like them? They were so plush and soft that John couldn’t resist rubbing one against his cheek before closing up the box to wrap them.

“I’ll see you on Christmas,” he said, imagining how it would feel to bury his face between the pair with Harold’s feet inside them.

 

***

 

For Harold, walking through the shrouded alley at the back of the library with John was surreal.

“What is this place?” Deja vu.

“You’ve asked me that before. I told you it was the decline of Western Civilization”

John gave him an indulgent look.

“Really?”

“It was a library. I bought it and others like it when they were abandoned due to lack of government funding. My partner, Nathan, used this building as a base of operations. Later, it became ours.”

Harold paused at the door. So much history. In what John referred to as “story time” they had reached a critical point the night before. Jessica. There had been no recognition in John’s eyes at the sound of her name. He’d digested the labyrinthine tale of the laptop’s journey to China, the tragic events that followed and Harold’s role in them with quiet, deep attention.

“You tried, Harold. You couldn’t control the events that unfolded. Neither could I. There was nothing either of us could have done to save her.”

For the second time, John gave him absolution for what happened in Ordos and its consequences. The guilt Harold felt for those he’d failed to save, for suffering his actions or inaction had caused, was something he lived with. John’s compassion did not relieve it but Harold had taken comfort from resting his hand on the man’s chest, gazing down into a face filled with understanding and sympathy. John’s loving eyes. 

***

From the moment he walked into the library he had a good feeling about it, despite the state it was in. The place was a wreck. The whole lower floor was covered with books and broken bits of furniture. It looked like years worth of decay. Upstairs it was worse, deliberate destruction.

“Looks like someone went to town with a sledgehammer,” he said, surveying the room.

“They did,” Harold said. “We barely got out before the hammers fell.” John pictured himself rescuing Harold, sweeping him up in his arms and carrying him down the marble stairs. He was almost in good enough shape for it now, the hip healing nicely. He liked to think that back then it would have been easy to lift and carry the smaller man.

Battling super computers, Samaritan versus the machine. Story time had gotten … interesting. John wouldn’t have believed what he heard if it were coming from anyone but Harold. Glimpses of Harold’s computer screen in the days they’d spent together made the story of the machine plausible. He understood just enough of the incomprehensible to know the man he loved was a genius.

“This is where we worked. Does anything look familiar?”

He did feel something in this building. The books, the way the light came through the construction shrouds, it all felt familiar without being attached to any specific memories. When they'd walked down the maze-like aisles he knew where they led without knowing how.

“Maybe,” he said. “I like this place.”

That made Harold smile, if a little sadly.

“I don’t believe you were ever lonely here, John.”

 

***

Why am I resisting him? A pattern was taking shape between them in which Harold felt he was regrettably playing the role of a shy maiden. He allowed touching, a kiss now and then. Evenings were spent companionably with John arrayed on the couch, his head nearly in Harold’s lap on a pillow. The pillow protected him, hid him to some degree. If he became aroused by looking at John (who was fully displayed, though clothed) touching him while they talked, it didn’t show; his modesty intact. It wasn’t actual modesty. He wasn’t a shy maiden and yet he could not move through what he experienced as a barrier. There were a few nights when he was close to inviting John to his bed but something always held him back.

I’m afraid, he thought, studying John as he surveyed the library. The substance of the fear was complex. He acknowledged his insecurities. His body was not beautiful in his eyes, nor was he certain of how well it would perform. He felt his lack of experience, keenly. When he looked at John he felt the impulse to touch him, to kiss him, but couldn’t quite picture what would follow. These things, he admitted, would not be difficult to overcome if only he felt sure — sure that it would not be a violation of their “true” relationship. That relationship, forged over years of grappling with life and death challenges still seemed more real to Harold. He could not get past the feeling that he’d somehow be taking advantage of John, of his impaired memory, by taking them down a road the man had chosen not to follow when he was in complete possession of himself.

The sound of Bear racing up the stairs signaled the arrival of Ms Shaw, who’d shown up early at the apartment that morning to take him to play in the snow in the park.

“I brought the donuts,” she announced.


	10. Chapter 10

An open bakery box. Inside were iced donuts with colorful sprinkles. John picked one out. The library was hardly warmer than the December day outside but he was warmed by the coffee in his hand. He glanced at Harold, hoping he wasn’t feeling the cold. He watched him take a sip of the hot tea Shaw had brought him and saw the steam fog his glasses a little.

The donut was golden, the inside tender and airy, the icing melted on his tongue. Chased by the hot coffee it was heaven. Someone was talking. Shaw, he thought, but he couldn’t concentrate, intent on the next bite and sip of coffee.

“When do you want to start?” Shaw’s voice drew him out of his reverie. With some resentment he tried to focus on her, what she was saying. The flavors in his mouth, the scent of the coffee rising from his cup seemed vital, weighted with meaning that he needed to decipher.

“Is something wrong?” Harold’s voice reached him distantly, through air that had become thick as fog around him.

“The numbers …” John said, trying to read a script appearing in his mind, like a scrap of barely remembered song lyrics. “… never stop coming.” The numbers. They were real. Solid. More than a story. The numbers. They were his life with Harold. His eyes focused on a standing metal frame, the inner edges of it were lined with jagged glass. He saw it whole in his mind, Harold taping a photograph to it.

He looked at Harold, saw the concern in his eyes — saw him as he had been.

“I know you,” John said, memories overtaking him in waves. He could feel layers of grime on his body, in his hair, could taste cheap whiskey in his mouth. He remembered what it was like to scrub himself clean after meeting Harold, cutting off his overgrown beard and shaving down to clean skin … because of him. He saw the man who’d reached out and saved him, then saved him again, and again. He felt the weight of a bomb vest, saw the face he’d come to love close in front of him on a windy rooftop; Harold refusing to abandon him. “Pick a winner …” Then another rooftop, from which he’d glimpsed his small form at a safe distance, knowing he’d succeeded in saving Harold’s life, the right life. He was the most important person in the world.

Someone too important to trouble with something as trivial as his desire to touch him.

God, he’d behaved like a fool, a lovesick fool, and Harold had allowed it. Kindly. Reluctantly. Affectionately humoring him.

No more, he thought.

They were staring at him. His friends, his dog. He drew himself a little straighter.

“Look who’s back,” Shaw said.

“Are you all right, John?”

“I guess I … haven’t exactly been myself lately.”

 

***

 

“I know you,” John said.

Harold could never have anticipated how heartbreaking it would be to hear this, to see John regain his memory. Though he desperately wanted his friend to be whole it was difficult to see him once again bear the weight of memory. It happened right in front of their eyes. Second by second, a transformation, his posture, stance, his expression, like he was putting on an invisible coat weighted with painful knowledge. There was a shield in his gaze when he looked at them.

“Look who’s back.”

“Are you all right, John?”

“I guess I … haven’t exactly been myself lately.”

“I think we should go home now.” Harold wanted him safe, not wandering the ruins of the library with god only knew what kinds of changes and shifts in his perspective taking place. He reached out to take John’s hand, as he’d become accustomed to doing, holding his hand or his arm as they walked. John squeezed his hand but let it go.

“You don’t have to, Finch. I’m all right.”

“It’s not a question of what I have to do.” Harold took John’s arm as they walked and held on to him firmly as they descended the stairs. In his ear, Root’s voice. “It’s up to you, Harry. Don’t let him brood.” This advice was so reminiscent of Root he had to remind himself it was based on the machine’s analysis.

“Don’t call a town car,” Shaw said, her light step down the stairs quicker than their pace. Bear ran from her, back to them and back to her again, loosely circling the group as if he wanted to herd them together. “I’ll drive you boys home.”

Her car was in the alley. Harold got in. John circled and got in on the other side. It hurt to see how he kept himself distant. Harold missed the man he’d become close to in the past weeks, the one who would sit near enough for their knees to touch.

“Guess we’re not gonna see any kissing,” Shaw said to Bear, whose chin rested on the back of the seat, his big brown eyes on John. Harold felt the dog’s longing for all to be well with his human.

There was no comeback from John to the kissing comment. Shaw's sparring partner was silent, staring out the side window.

 

***

 

John threw himself into the work of rehabbing the library. Pushing himself physically was gratifying and helped … with the rest. He was careful with Harold, who tried to touch him in sympathetic ways. John discouraged it, maintaining a respectful distance. He didn’t believe Harold wanted more. In all the years of their partnership the man could have had John with a snap of his fingers, at the least sign of interest. God knew John had watched for a sign. What he did not want was sympathy and he took pains to reassure Harold that he was all right.

Take out food replaced the dinners he’d been cooking. Reading at opposite ends of the couch, with Bear between them, an occasional movie, replaced the nightly history sessions. John would have offered to move out, back into his loft if the memory of saying it felt lonely weren’t so fresh in everyone’s minds. Alone in his bedroom at the safe house he tried to re-inhabit his own skin. The awkwardness of being with Harold now was abundant proof of what he’d always believed, that expressing desire could ruin a friendship. If he was careful, in time, he hoped they could recapture their ease with one another.

John planned to ignore Christmas as they always had. Shaw had announced she was going skiing with Tomas for the holiday. It surprised him when Harold asked him if he’d like to attend midnight mass at St. Cecilia’s.

“You want to attend mass, Harold?”

“I think it would be nice for us to do something together, to have some sort of celebration. I’m sure Father Murphy would be pleased to see you.”

“There’s an awful lot of kneeling and rising and kneeling again,” John said, unsure if Harold really understood what it would be like.

“I’m not unfamiliar with the practice. You can help me, John.”

“All right.”

It was an unusual request but oddly appealing. It would be better than the tortured quiet of the last few nights, trying to lose himself in a book while hyper aware of Harold nearby. Trying not to think about the stilted caresses he’d more or less forced Harold to give him.

It lifted his spirits to put on his best suit, to see Harold similarly well turned out in formal wear. He looked very handsome and John felt proud to enter the church with him. Father Murphy welcomed them expansively, as did the parish ladies who knew him best.

The church looked beautiful. The incense, overwhelming to some, was intoxicating to him. The sounds of the mass, the singing, took him out of himself and soothed him. When he felt Harold’s hand find his as they knelt and prayed, he didn’t shy from it. The mass warmed his heart and though he did not take communion, he felt … forgiven.

They lingered a little afterwards, staying for a glass of wine, a little mingling. The acceptance of John Hayes as a gay man amazed him. The people he introduced to Harold took them to be a couple and approved of him, some going so far as to take him aside and tell him so. Some, like his frequent workmate, Mary, didn’t bother to take him aside. 

“You’re such a lovely man, Harold. I’m so happy for John. You look stunning together.”

“Thank you so much,” Harold said, not the least bit shy. He made no attempt to say they were not a couple. He seemed delighted, in fact, and in his gaze John felt loved. Is it possible, he wondered, that Harold’s touches, like the one now on his arm that subtly caressed him, the kisses he’d allowed in the weeks that John was Hayes, not Reese, were more than kind indulgence?

 

***

 

Harold put on his pajamas, feeling very good about his evening with John. They had taken Bear out for a last walk of the night and the man had been relaxed beside him for what felt like the first time since he’d regained his memories. The machine’s suggestion of attending the midnight mass proved a very wise one.

“Harold.” John was in the doorway to his room. Still in his dress shirt and trousers.

“Yes?”

“It’s Christmas. I have something I’d like to give you.” He was holding a wrapped package.

“Come in. Unfortunately, you’ve caught me empty-handed,” he said.

“That doesn’t matter. It’s a gift for you … but also for me.”

“A gift for both of us.” Intriguing, he couldn’t begin to imagine what it was.

John handed him the package. It was very lightweight. Maybe … tea. That was something they could share but John was definitely not a tea drinker. And why was John kneeling by the bed instead of sitting down beside him. He pulled the ribbon loose and gently opened the paper. A shiny white box. More curious than ever, Harold lifted the lid and parted the tissue paper inside. And stared, uncomprehending at a boxful of purple … fluff.

“They’re slippers, Harold.”

John took the box from him and lifted one of them out. It was a perfectly ridiculous looking thing. Harold tried to relax the frown he felt on his face, trying to think of what to say. And then John was gently grasping him by the ankle and sliding the thing on him. Oh. His touch and the sensuous softness of the slipper were exquisite. Harold felt like his foot had been cocooned in unexpected bliss and he longed for the second slipper.

“You like them,” John said, caressing Harold’s feet.

“I do.”

“This part,” John said, “is your gift to me.” He bent forward and lifted Harold’s fluff clad feet to rub his cheeks on them, to kiss them. Then he set them back down and moved closer on his knees between Harold’s legs. “And this part.” His hands rounded Harold’s hips and he pressed his face to his stomach.

***

The machine found resonance in John’s recovery, as profound as Marcel Proust’s Remembrance Of Things Past. One inspired by the flavor of a Madeleine cookie, the other by a donut with sprinkles. It viewed humans as living, breathing poetry.

Via sound and the subtlest vibrations in the air, it recorded the kisses given and received between admin and the primary asset.

The machine bestowed its own gift on Bear — singing gentle songs to the Malinois who was curled up in his bed at the foot of Harold’s, confused by the humans' behavior. Lullabies that only the dog could hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What to give thanks for: the patience and encouragement of my readers. I hope everyone has had, is having an enjoyable holiday!! I'm grateful to have written and posted a story. I love you all!❤️


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